


So Don't Let Go

by subtropicalStenella



Series: 5 for 500 [6]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Public Display of Affection, Sloppy Makeouts, just guys being dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 06:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12163236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtropicalStenella/pseuds/subtropicalStenella
Summary: 5 for 500 Prompt for PropheticFire: So What's This About Public Makeouts For Sandwiches?Ft: ALL of Colo Squad!





	So Don't Let Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [propheticfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/propheticfire/gifts).



They've got another two hours to wait before they move out, so they're hiding out in the shade of his Z-95 with Colo and Krayt squads, flightsuits stripped down to their waists and sweltering anyway in thin tanktops. Apparently even the troopers’ envrio couldn't keep up with Tattooine heat, even with only one sun up. They look just as miserable. Troops would march out and take position well before he and Mids would take off, but they're the ones running scout for this area, and until they get word from CC Bly or FC Done (still hilarious, that story) all of them get to sit on their sweaty asses. Hurry Up And Wait: the real GAR motto. 

Colo’s demolitions guy looks over from his conversation with the rest of them, and says “I got this. Hey, flyboy!”

Both of them look up briefly. Mids goes back to his  _ Droid Equine Rampage  _ game almost immediately. 

 

“Mids and Gunner, right?” Demo Guy asks, indicating both of them in turn. 

“Gunner, Mids,” he corrects.

“Right, sorry. Anyway,  _ Catch _ \--” Demo Guy hooks a thumb over his shoulder at the heavy, “--has thirty credits and a ham sandwich apiece for you if you kiss.”

 

The heavy’s “Hey _ , fuck  _ you, Trick--” is lost as Mids sits up, leans over, smears a loud, sloppy kiss across his mouth, and flops back down, holding a hand out expectantly. The one not occupied with making a sparkly animated magical droid critter jump through hoops. 

 

“ _ Nope.  _ Doesn't count,” Trick says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Gotta earn it!” their sniper yells down, shirtless and baking himself on the nose of Mids’ Z, well above everyone else and squinting against the sunlight. 

 

Mids rolls his eyes and shoves his datapad into his pocket before grabbing him by the collar of his tank and hauling him in for another kiss, this one longer, with tongue, but it's ruined when he cracks up at Mids’ blatantly false, pornographic moaning, and it gets them booed at. 

 

“C'mere you,” he laughs, and hooks his hand behind Mids’ knee, pulling him into his lap. Mids goes easily, settling in, but he stops him from resuming the ridiculous show by cupping his face in his hands and kissing him softly, gently. See, Mids was great at getting a laugh out of a guy, out of a crowd, but buddy, that is not how you put on a  _ show _ .

 

He starts slow, feathering light little kisses over Mids’ mouth, barely more than their lips brushing together, and Mids grins like a lothcat before his expression softens. He starts to linger a bit, letting his lips part, the tip of his tongue soft on the chapped split in Mids’ bottom lip, and Mids slings his arms loosely around his neck. The Republic Cog shaved into the side of Mids’ head is a little blurry, hair getting too long to show the design properly, but it's wonderfully soft as he reaches back cups Mids’ head in his hand, run his fingertips lightly down the back of his neck. 

Mids slants his head to deepen the kiss, his arms tightening around his shoulders until they're pressed chest to chest. He turns his chuckle into something close enough to a sexy growl to pass muster, and lets Mids show off. Can't ever wait and savor shit, reckless impatient spitfire showoff, full of piss and vinegar, starting a slow, faint rocking in his hips, his spine arched so his loose flightsuit pulls tight around his tight little ass _.  _

Pilots may not be built out of the slabs of Grade AAA GAR-Choice banthasteak that make Troopers famous, but Mids somehow got an ass to rival the best of them, even if sometimes it seemed like Gunner was the only one that cared enough to look past the pilot stereotype and notice. He reaches down with his free hand to grab a piece, squeezing, and Mids gives their audience a showy, startled little whine, rolling his hips. See? Fantastic. Someone else answers with another, theirs genuine and even more surprised. Mids has great ink too, the painstakingly rendered Z-95 Model A and most of the roses, the  _ FLY OR DIE _ ribbon visible when he pulls his hand up from Mids’ ass to shove the back of his shirt up and flatten his hand between his shoulderblades. 

He brings his other hand down from the back of Mids’ neck down to his ass, digging his fingers in so his nails rasp over the canvas, bracing his boots wide so Mids can do his thing: swivelling his hips like a damn dancer in his lap. He's able to look over Mids' shoulder when Mids tips a little sideways, kissing the underside of his jaw, and he grins at the staring troopers, licks his teeth. 

Mids sits up, half turns and looks Trick dead in the eye with his best, most bunkroom-eyes smile. 

 

“So, about that  _ sandwich _ ,” Mids says, and Trick fucking  _ chokes  _ over the sound of his cod armor creaking. 

 

He ruins it by laughing  _ again,  _ loud ugly snorting he buries in Mids’ chest that turns to wheezing when Colo’s sniper yells, “Well  _ that  _ backfired.”

Catch is near to  _ pissing himself  _ laughing as he walks over and slaps two flimsi-wrapped sandwiches into Mids’ outstretched hand. 

 

“Keep the credits, bro,” Mids says, clambering out of his lap and unwrapping a sandwich. “Take Guns out for a nice long walk if we get a free rotation next double-sundown, yeah?” 

 

He smiles shyly over his own sandwich at the pretty heavy gunner with the long, nicely grabable undercut, who grins back.

 

_ Best wingman. _

 


End file.
